Baruk Khazad!
by Grand Admiral Harmon
Summary: The War of the Dwarves and Orcs draws to an epic close. A young and untested Thorin, son and heir to Thrain, son of Thror, marches to face an evil lurking in Moria, where one of the greatest clashes of Middle Earth history is about to be fought. A legend is about to be born.
1. Intro

**Baruk Khazâd!**

 **Introduction**

This is the first of several stories set in the Middle Earth universe. Each story will be a couple of chapters long. Each story will revolve around a significant battle in the Tolkien lore, in which either the battle is only hinted at but no real time is spent describing the battle due to the main character not being involved in the conflict so only rumors and reports reached them but taking place during the books timeframe or happened before the books of the _Hobbit_ or the _Lord of the Rings._

An example of the former would be the Second Battle of Osgiliath. This clash happened during the _Return of the King_ in which the Witch-King took the city in preperations for Sauron's major stroke against Minas Tirith in which the story was following Perigrin Took who was in Minas Tirith as that city pbraced itself for the defeat of it's out defences.

An example of the later would be the Battle of Fornost. The Battle saw the end of the Kingdom of Angmar which had plagued the northern Dύnedaín Kingdoms and brought about their ruin.

 _ **Baruk Khazâd!**_ is the story of the Battle of Azanulbizar. The story will follow the character of Thorin II, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. He would later become the King under the Mountain and he would become famous as Thorin Oakinshield. The story starts right after the sack of the last colony before the dawrven armies, vengeful for the cruel treatment of the body of King Thrór, exiled King of the Lonely Mountain by Azog the Defiler.


	2. Chapter 1

_Lord of the Rings_ and the names and places here do not belong to me.

This is a non-profit work of fiction based on the world created by J.R.R. Tolkien.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 _Few who have seen the glory and terror of dragons will understand the power of their flames. The strength of men and the greatness of the dwarves are nothing compared to what they can do. We of Durin's Folk will remain strong though, no matter the dangers past._

 _Hrot vuabb ankannag glorak vel bragha al jugen an skilam gonn al demz taul. Brizag kheluz vel de gabil khuzdaz bi nai do vass dey to. Ut al Durin's gray an kheluz, nai toglot bragha._

The words. Etched forever in the souls of those who heard the words as their homes lay burning behind them. They had been uttered by his grandfather after their flight from Erebor.

Ah...Erebor, Erebor. The Lonely Mountain. More properly it was called Ghunum Bulnd. Yet most people knew it as the Lonely Mountain. Not that they would know any better. Khuzdul was a secret language as old if not older than the elvish speech and it was secret, made more so by the complexity of the sacred tongue of the dwarves. It was not allowed to be utter before the races of Men or Elves.

Thorin thought about all these things as he sharpened the sectional blade of his broadsword. Starting about a foot wide, the blade went down two feet where it connected with a small length of blade that was only half a foot across. The tip was sharp and angular, and he wiped it. It's name was _Nikuz Ugog_ , Pride Bane, as it was translated into the common speech. It had been given to him at the beginning of the war by his father Thrain.

"May the light of Aulë protect you in the trials ahead," had been his words as he gave up the newly forged weapon to an awe-struck Thorin.

Despite all the craftsmanship that had gone into the forging of the blade, it was no match for what had been made in Erebor. No gold was wrought within the handle, no gems adorned the pummel. Even the steel was only two-thirds the strength usual in the blades of the dwarves. Yes, it was as strong as the elvish blades of the Noldor of ages past, but a true dwarf sword could actually break the blade of even the most skilled weapons-master of the High Elves.

Gold, he thought grimly as he looked at the sword. What I wouldn't give for the golden armories of my father and his fathers halls. The immeasurable wealth of Ghunum Bulnd. Ah...the memories of my childhood are so sweet compared to the reality of the present!

Great battle could be heard winding down in the valley below. The fight had been sharp and fierce, and his blood had boiled at the thought of what killing an orc chieftain or great goblin warrior would be like. But no! His father, Thrain, son of Thror, last King under the Mountain would have none of it. He was to be treated like unto the women of Men, which the Dwarves called the Baram. Or even the filthy faithless pointed ears of the Elven-kind, called Khalam. He was to be forced to wait and tend the halls of the great dwarven lords.

This was not fitting for the second in line to the greatest throne of all of Middle Earth, that vast portion of land, mountain and rivers that encompassed the north-western portion of Arda. It was not fitting that a Khuzd of the Khazud al Durin (the Khazdul speech for the 'Dwarves of Durin'), should be forced to wait back in the rear of the great battles going on down in the valley below.

The battle cries of tens of thousands could be heard, and the sound of battle made his blood boil within. He wanted to be in the battle! He wanted to do great deeds. He wanted to fight, spilling the blood of his foes.

"My father does me great dishonor by keeping me from the fight."

He had meant it to be only a secret thought. Yet his words were uttered. Even then, they were low, and he looked around him. It appeared that none had taken notice of him, so he returned his attention to the blade. The sound of the wetting stone as he twisted the blade to face the opposite side, and running down its length, sounded sweet to his ears.

"Your father does what is best," a voice said. "He will do as he likes, and it is not for you to gainsay him in these matters."

Thorin closed his eyes in annoyance. No, his words had not gone unheeded. His wetting stone stopped and he took a few breaths to clear his head before he started talking again. Thorin had always been a hot-tempered youth. Yeah, he was fifty and nine winters, and just come into the age of manhood in the dwarven culture. He had been twenty and four when the worm Smaug the Terrible had come with fire and death to the city of men that was called Dale and came with wroth to the Ghunum Bulnd. That had been the 2270th year of the Third Age of the world. Now, it was 2299 of that same age, but his memory of the events of that foul day still burned in his mind.

"My father is many things," he said, looking up from _Nikuz Ugog_ to look at the dwarf that stood before him. His back was turned to the young dwarf prince but Thorin was under no illusions he wasn't paying attention. "Yet he is not all knowing. He thinks it wisdom to hold me back? I am become a Khuzd and yet there are no deeds to attach to my name. I am Khuzd without purpose."

All he spoke was true. His father was by no means the wisest person in Arda. He admitted that freely, despite the great love he held for the dwarf. Dwarves were far longer lived than men, so long that none knew just how long they could live. Therefore, it was only in their sixtith year they became actual dwarves and could take on the secret dwarvish name. Before that they were mere shadows of what they would become.

When they reached the age of adulthood, if they had done any great deeds before that age, it would be attached to their names forever. If a dwarf slew a great goblin chieftain during a victorious battle or fought a savage rear-guard, they would be known as Dwalin the Goblinslayer or Dain the Superb. Even the discovery of a new great mine or friendship with another race could attach fame to that dwarf. Lureg the Elf-friend or Zili Shaftfinder.

Yet the only thing he could claim for fame right now was surviving the sack of Erebor. Would he be known as Thorin the Ragged? Thorin Beggerbeard? The shame would be unbearable.

"Thrain, the King, has no name attached to him," the dwarf reminded him. "Does that mean he is less for that? Is he not as worthy to be revered as the lord of all our folk?"

"What does it matter to you?" Thorin snapped. "Balin, I do not care for what you say in this matter. My father can do as he likes, it is true. But I will not be nameless like he is!"

The younger dwarf said nothing for a while. He had been with the prince since the fall of Erebor and had been a constant companion. Yet Balin's ability to spin everything into a positive yet realistic light was not always welcome by Thorin. They had never been the closest of friends and much odds they were at nearly all the time.

"He is the King," Balin said, and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It is not without honor to not have a great name attached to yours. Honor is what we build and is not given glory through titles."

Thorin snorted. "You speak much Balin," he said. Angrily he stood up and sheathed his sword. "Yet for all your pretty speech you convince me not. Supposedly we are the most elite warriors and yet we are held back from even this battle. What is the name of this forsaken place anyways?"

"The Gladden Fields, my lord," the younger dwarf explained.

"The Gladden Fields?" Thorin spat. "Could they not have given it a Khuzdul name? Just let the _Vern Fazul_ into the fray and we'd give it a name worthy of the dwarves!"

The Vern Fazul were War Goats. Massive rams that were three times the size of normal mountain goats. One could also call them battle rams. There was in total three hundred of these rams and their riders and they were eilte...or so they were told they were.


End file.
